Till Him, Till Her
by TempestAriel
Summary: It's worth it for that face...or the money. Hey, life's a stage. HIATUS.
1. Act 1 Begins

**_Don't expect frequent updates. I'm still in the middle of_ Bitterly Sweet_. Speaking of, don't get freaked out when you see all the chapters before the first gone. I'm rewritting the whole thing._**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own_ The Producers**

**_I do own_ Alita Belle _and the play_ Molly Dick**

**_This story is based off the most recent version with_ Nathan Lane _and_ Matthew Brodrick _(don't own them)._**

**_This is _not_ slash. _**

**_This is an OC (read profile, 3rd paragraph)._**

**

* * *

**

... **Act One Begins **...

* * *

"Waitress!" 

She made a quick turn, proving her superb balancing skills when the plates in her hands did not topple over. The customer who had called did not seem to notice her reddened cheeks of overwork. He picked up his wine glass and waved it back and forth impatiently.

"I'll be right there Mr. Marks!" she ensured, forcing a friendly smile that she was paid to give.

"Ha! You said that last time." Mr. Marks growled, slamming his glass down.

She flinched, seeing the thin glass crack. _That is coming out of my paycheck._

"I'm sorry Mr. Marks. As you can see, we are quite busy today."

The CPA pointed at her threateningly. "Don't use that tone with me! I don't care how busy you are! I have waited five minutes for just a glass of wine."

"And might I recommend you don't drink any more…" she mumbled, noting his glassy eyes.

"What did you say?"

"I'll be right there!" she said in an acidly sweet tone.

Mr. Marks narrowed his eyes dangerously, but returned to eating his sandwich. The waitress turned back around, holding back a scream of frustration. She made her way through the restaurant, weaving and twirling so as to not collide with coworkers or customers. She noted each call for her, burning their table number in her brain so she remembered to return to them. Finally, she made it to the other side of the room, unfolding a carrier table before them and setting down the heavy plates.

"I am so sorry. We are very busy today," she apologized to the two men as she set their food in front of them.

"Of course, dear. There is no hurry."

The girl smiled thankfully at the flaunty looking man. "Well, I thank you for your understanding."

"Um…"

She looked over at the man sitting across the other, "Is there a problem?"

He chuckles a little, but in an apologetic sort of way. "I'm sorry, but this isn't what I ordered."

"Wha—?" She looked down at his plate, and groaned realizing she had brought him table two's order. "Oh no…I am _so_ sorry! I'll be right back."

The waitress took up his plate and darted back into the crowd.

"Poor girl." Roger chuckled. "I can't imagine having to deal with the stress every day."

"Or the certified public assholes." Max replied, seeing Leo's old boss yell at said waitress. "Anyways, what were you saying before?" He said this in a tone implying that he clearly remembered what he and Roger were talking about before.

Roger chuckled at it, setting down his sandwich and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Just that we need to set some boundaries Max." Roger said. "You are the producer, not the director. It is quite annoying that you dismissed all the auditions without my consent."

Max's eyes narrowed, "That's because none of them were good and you have trouble seeing that."

"What _are_ you talking about Max? They were all _very_ good!"

"True, but none of those women fit the part of our heroin."

"I thought Miss Sherwood did well…"

Max rolled his eyes in frustration. "Roger, they all did well. But those actresses did not look the part; they have been seen too often. We need a new face."

The director looked horrified. "'A new face'? Max, putting a new actress on the stage during one of the most anticipated plays of the year is a _death sentence!_"

"So, it'll be a risk." Max shrugged.

Roger sputtered, slumping deeper into the leather chair and touching his suddenly sweating forehead. Then he leaned forward suddenly, his face begging for this determined producer to understand.

"Max…_there are no new actresses._ The only experienced ones around auditioned _today! And you turned them down!_ Because of that, they will not give into the begging _I_ will have to do later!"

"Well then, I guess that means we will have to build one from scratch."

Roger thought he felt his heart stop. This man, one of his friends, was going crazy! He just—

"You just don't get it! To become an actor takes _years_ of classes! _Molly Dick_ is supposed to open _this_ October. We don't have enough time. Plus," Roger chuckled, "you couldn't do it if you tried."

Max's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Excuse me?"

"Come now, dear Max! Such a thing is not your field."

"_Oh, really?" _

"Oh, don't be angry Max." Roger tsked as he pat the man's clenched hand. "It's just that you're a producer. You can't teach anyone to act."

Apparently, Roger did not see the murder in said producer's eyes.

"What if I could?" Max growled.

The man laughed, "I'd pay good money to see that."

"Five hundred says I can." Max sneered.

"Max, _where_ are you going to get someone willing enough to participate in this? Plus, someone that 'fits' the part?" Roger smirked triumphantly.

The two continued to glare at each other, neither willing to look away.

"I'm sorry I mixed your order up," said the returning waitress.

Max looked up at her, "That's alright—"

Then he froze. This waitress…she looked familiar for some odd reason. Strawberry blonde hair, onyx eyes…_where_ had he seen her before?

Max's eyes widened and he pulled out the script of _Molly Dick_. He read the profile of the heroin and stared back up at the waitress, who was a bit uneasy under his wide-eyed gaze.

Roger realized what was going on.

"_No_ Max," he growled.

But the producer did not seem to hear his friend. The wheels were turning in his head.

"Max! _NO!"_ Roger exclaimed.

The waitress took a step back. "Is there something wrong?"

Max broke out in a grin, "No my dear! Everything is great!"

"I know what you're thinking Max! The answer is no! A _huge_ no! NO! NO! NO!" Roger yelled, pointing at him.

Too excited to see the director's rant, he shook his pointing finger in a handshake.

"You've got a deal DeBris!"

Roger stared at his deal-shaken finger with terrified eyes as Max jumped from the leather seat. The waitress took a few more steps back, anxious under the King of Broadway's gaze.

"What is your name, my dear?" he asked gentlemanly, clasping his hands behind his back.

"A-Alita Belle," she replied hesitantly.

"Alita Belle." Max replied with a sigh, then glanced over at Roger.

The director seemed to be having a heart attack, which looked very much like his Stroke of Genius. His hands were on his temples and he was making odd groaning noises. The only thing that suggested that he was not having a Stroke of Genius was the perspiration on his forehead, and the twitch on his eyebrow.

"Is he okay?" the waitress, Alita, asked.

"Oh he's fine." Max dismissed, turning back to her.

"Are you sure? I mean…he's turning an odd color of red…"

"He's fine. Now, Miss Belle…or are you married?"

"Um…no...Listen, your friend _really_ doesn't look good."

"Do you like being a waitress?"

Alita stared up at him, stunned by the blunt question. She laughed a little, "It puts bread on the table."

"Not as much as you need though, no?"

"Well, of course not."

Max's smile widened. "Would like a career change?"

The woman quirked a brow. "Well, of course. But there's no way in this part of town. Everything from Broadway to garbage collector is taken." She took up two empty plates from the table behind her when the couple set them aside. Alita turned back to Max, a wry smile on her face. "And I prefer the garbage collector 'cause he gets paid more than I do for putting up with shit."

He laughed, "Perfect! She has a sense of humor."

Alita nodded in mock agreement. "_Ye-_ah...This conversation has been…interesting, but I need to get back to the customers."

"WAITRESS!"

She flinched. "I'm _coming_ Mr. Marks!"

But Max would not let her go. He stood in her path, receiving a look surprise. Then, she glared.

"What is it that you want?" she hissed.

"I want you to be the lead role in my next play."

The woman's jaw dropped and she nearly dropped the plates in her hands. Quickly though, she regained her balance.

"You have _got_ to be joking," she said.

The producer shook his head. "I'm not."

She burst out laughing, "Then you're insane! I'm a _waitress_ not an actress."

"I can train you."

"That takes years. And I haven't the time…"

"WAITRESS!"

"…as you can see."

"Then quit." Max suggested nonchalantly.

"I can't quit! I need the money! And acting on Broadway only has an up, then a sharp steep down with sharper rocks. So, the answer is no. I am _not_ going to quit."

"But you are perfect for this role!" Max insisted, gesturing to the open pages of the script. "You fit Molly…no…you _are_ Molly!"

"I don't care. There is no life in Broadway!"

"And you have a life?" Max argued with a smirk, gesturing around the restaurant.

Alita's jaw dropped. "How dare—good _bye_ Mr. Bialystock!"

Again, he blocked her way. As the pair glared at each other, Max took a handful of unfinished spaghetti from one of her plates, and then smeared it onto his shoulder.

"What _are_ you doing?" Alita said in a tired tone.

"Getting you fired." Max replied simply as he added a few touches of meatball.

Alita quirked a brow. "Why?"

"You won't quit, so I'm giving you a simple shove."

"Well, you're going about it all wrong. _I_ am supposed to throw the food at you. Now, good-bye."

Max watched as she once again disappeared into the sea of customers, and all he could do was smile.

"For God's sake Max!" Roger grunted, finally out of his episode. "Just quit!"

The producer only said: "But I'm not ahead yet," then walked off to the manager's office.

Minutes later...

"ALITA!"

* * *

_This town is a quiet town  
Or a riot town like this town  
This town is a love-you town  
And a shove-you-down and push-you-'round town_

_This town is an all-right town  
For an uptight town like-a this town  
This town, it's a use-you town  
An abuse-you town until-you're-down town_

_This town is a losin' town  
It's a miserable town  
It's a nowhere town  
And i am leavin' this town  
You better believe that I'm leavin' this town  
Man, it could never be uptown  
It's bound to be downtown_

-Frank Sinatra, This Town


	2. Tragedy?

**_Disclaimer: I do not own_ The Producers**

**_I do own_ Alita Belle _and the play_ Molly Dick**

**_This story is based off the most recent version with_ Nathan Lane _and_ Matthew Brodrick _(don't own them)._**

**_This is _not_ slash. _**

**_This is an OC (read profile, 3rd paragraph)._**

* * *

**...Tragedy?...**

* * *

"ALITA!"

"Huh?"…CRASH.

Plates broke, food flew and only God knew what had fallen into a man's coffee mug. However, the focus was on two people: a waitress and a well dressed heir covered in left-over chow. Thankfully, none of the dishes were hot from the kitchen but the employee could not keep the flush from coming to her cheeks as the man eased her to her feet. He was apologizing as he did so, seeing Alita's watery eyes; she could only tear up more when this man began taking all the blame when none of it was his fault. _She_ had been distracted by her manager's call—or scream.

"Sir, please. Don't do that," Alita mumbled when he had began brushing off salad leaves from her shoulder. "It's not your fault-"

"AL-I-_TA!"_

The flinch was seen by anyone who was looking in the girl's direction…and this means everyone. She despised being the center of attention especially when she was the one who caused it. Ducking her head so that her dripping hair covered her shame-crinkled face, Alita swiftly made her way through the food-splattered disaster and into the kitchen. The noise inside the restaurant began to heighten in volume once again, the customers continuing mindless weather talk or the recent collision in the middle of the restaurant. The heir, whom has been so insistent in claiming all responsibility for the accident, watched the retreating waitress's back with concern. He hoped she wouldn't be fired…

**-a few minutes later-**

"Yes, si—_you."_

A spaghetti crusted shoulder of Mr. Bialystock's lifted in a shrug. Alita knew then that the collision was going to be the last thing she worried about in the silent kitchen; the smug face of the famous producer was enough to make her question the reason behind it. Her stomach clenched yet she did not know if that clench was from her worry or the blood boiling anger towards that man. She hoped Bialystock felt the daggers she poured from her steel-like eyes but it was in vain.

"This is the young lady, sir," the producer said.

Alita's boss—a rather fat, greasy man—growled in her direction. Usually, Ricky was a nice guy, easy with a joke even if he was a little too strict with his kitchen; thing is, no one wants to be around when he was angry…hence the silent kitchen.

"I can not mistake a face," Bialystock continued. "She poured the spaghetti over my best suit-"

"Polyester?" Alita sneered.

"AND!" he yelled, covering the waitress's observation, "refused to bring me my correct order."

Ricky's eyes narrowed to slits. _"Alita?"_

"MANAGER!"

To complete her nightmare, Mr. Marks barged through the kitchen door as if he were emerging from the great wooden horse of the Trojans. Pointing a finger dangerously close to Alita's face the bank CPA began to recite his long, well-rehearsed form of complaints about Alita Belle. They were everything from seduction to the lack of his beloved wine ("HIC!"). What did the waitress do but stare with open mouth, lost for words to defend herself; not that she did any of those things. _Especially seduce him…_She threw up in her mouth. To put the finger on the very sharp point, the woman was being surrounded by accusations which were not worthy of her person. It was so overwhelmingly—overwhelming that she could not defend herself when all glares turned in her direction.

She was reminded of the time when she first started at Sardi's: her first position was loading and unloading delivery trucks. Or rather, that was mainly her mentor's job; however, he had decided to make the noob do all of the work even though Alita was only supposed to write down the appropriate number of supplies in the boxes. There was this one particular box she still loathed to this very day—she _swore_ there were bricks in it. Able to heave it onto her back, she only took a few steps forward before she collapsed beneath her load. Alita bore a weight that was not her own and suffered greatly from it.

Back to the matter at hand: three men glared, one woman stared.

_Say some thing you idiot! Your life depends on it!_

"I-I-I…I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-"

_Damn-it._

What else could she do but break down and cry? Well, that is exactly what she did.

"HA! She's guilty!" Mr. Marks barked. "Do you not see? She cries in guilt!"

"What are yah, some sort of Shakespearean?" Bialystock snapped. "I bet you practiced that all day. Well done, Mr. Marks. You get the Best Actor award."

"Gentlemen!" the chef, Ricky, cried. "This is no place for that! Please leave so that I may take care of business."

"Yes, sir," Bialystock nodded. "Good day to you. And as for you, _Mr. Marks_…long live the king."

The producer swept out the door, leaving the CPA blinking in utter confusion.

* * *

_You can always get it right next time, next time  
You can always get it right next time, next time_

_You can count on me  
To mess it up  
You can count on me  
To let you down again  
And in time you'll see  
That I'm your only friend_

_You can always get it right next time, next time  
You can always get it right next time, next time_

_Comfort in community  
Obliterated  
Given opportunity I hesitated  
Even my humility's  
Humilitated_

_You can always get it right next time, next time  
You can always get it right next time, next time_

_When you die they make a list  
Of every love you never kissed  
Of each regret and each mistake  
Every choice you failed to make_

_You can always get it right next time, next time  
You can always get it right next time, next time_

_It's a shame I have to wait  
Until the ending  
Everything I've yet to break  
Is surely bending  
Every vow I take  
Is just pretending  
That this mess I make  
Is worth defending_

_You can always get it right next time, next time  
You can always get it right next time, next time_

-Barenaked Ladies, Next Time


	3. Comedy?

**_Disclaimer: I do not own_ The Producers**

**_I do own_ Alita Belle _and the play_ Molly Dick**

**_This story is based off the most recent version with_ Nathan Lane _and_ Matthew Brodrick _(don't own them)._**

**_This is an OC (read profile, 3rd paragraph)._**

* * *

**...Comedy?...**

* * *

With the floor swept, scrubbed and absent of left-over food the restaurant appeared to be back to normal. Though, with the absence of Sardi's best waitress efficiency had already begun to dismember. Chef Ricky was quick to fill in whatever responsibility Alita had held, yet in the first ten minutes after the woman's termination he began to notice that minuscule slope downward in his mental production chart. Even after assigning two extra tables to each of his on-floor staff the Italian man knew it was all too much for them.

The chef reluctantly reached under the counter and pulled out the **Help Wanted** sign. Mumbling under his breath, he strode across the restaurant and stuck it up on the window for the whole busy street to see. He shook his head disappointingly, and returned to the kitchen hoping that an interested job seeker would ring the bell of his restaurant door very soon.

The heir's blue eyes were stuck on the sign, worried. Had he caused the woman to get fired?

Setting down his napkin he started to follow the chef. Surely Ricky would remember the favor he promised? Perhaps he could explain what had happened—with a few twisted details to make it look like his own fault—and then Ricky would give the woman her job back.

…and said woman just walked out of the restaurant.

Spotting this, the heir raced after her, his eyes trained to her back which was clothed in a black coat—which was what everyone else was wearing. Considering the light difficulty, he lightly pressed some people aside and finally caught the woman's arm.

"Miss!"

She quickly turned, her mouth opened to no doubt release the frustration on her unsuspecting, unwanted victim. However when she recognized the man from their reckless encounter, her jaw snapped shut with a slight "click!" and her cheeks flushed a brilliant pink.

"Oh, it's you," she said quietly.

"I do hope you are not fired?" He went straight to the point, such was his nature. He did not "tra-la-la around a shrubbery" as his father once put it in _very_ unique fashions, as was _his_ nature. The heir was the complete opposite of his sire.

The woman frowned slightly. "Unfortunately, I am. It was bound to happen though."

"Well, why didn't you tell Ricky the collision was my fault? That would have prevented your termination," he concluded, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

The former waitress faced him fully, confused to the nature of his insistences upon the matter as his fault. The heir knew very well that it was the woman's error that they ran into one another, yet he was prepared to accept all responsibility. For what reason? Chef Ricky needed a good employee after dealing with the catastrophes of the past, and it was quite apparent that this waitress was a very good worker; the heir had seen her in action, quickly tending to customer's needs even if they were straining at times (which was quite often). In a way, the heir thought that this woman knew him better than anyone else because he _always_ put others first…even if they did not know each other's names.

"_Because_ that would have been wrong and I couldn't blame my fault on some one else; especially some one I do not know," she explained.

"I told you to tell Ricky it was my fault," the heir pointed out.

"Yes you did," she allowed. "But as I said, that would have been wrong."

"The sin was vanquished when I gave you my permission," he smirked.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

"Don't you need the job?"

"Of course I do."

"Then we can go back inside and explain things," he said and took her arm yet again into his grasp.

She snatched her arm away. "Will you hold up a minute? And don't touch me like that…"

The heir quickly noticed the discomfort knotted in her brow at his aggressive touch and the way she shied away like a wounded feline. He took half a step back in hopes that it would ease her somewhat.

"I apologize," he said gently. "I get over-excited."

"Apparently…" she mumbled, but seemed to accept his apology. "Look, I appreciate what you are trying to do. It's very kind of you. However, my collision with you has nothing to do with me being fired."

He felt all his defenses ready to make her see reason suddenly just fall into an abyss, and it left him slightly speechless.

"Oh…" He paused, allowing the information to completely process in his restarting brain. "Oh!"

She smiled weakly, "Yeah."

"Well then…I apologize again," he bowed lightly.

"It's fine, really."

"Then, if you don't mind me inquiring: why were you fired then, if not for _our_ ruckus in the middle of lunch?" he asked.

The woman scowled. _"Apparently_ I threw spaghetti on Max Bialystock."

The heir could not help but laugh. "You did?"

"I wish," she allowed a smirk. "But I loved my paycheck too much. He actually smeared it on himself."

This time, it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Why would he do that, I wonder?"

"To blackmail me into a play he's put into production."

"Now, I thought Max Bialystock gave up his criminal ways," the heir smiled.

"Once evil, always evil I say."

The man chuckled. "It's a shame you won't be in the play, you look just the part."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"I'm the patron and…"

"Shit!" she yelled, earning quite a few affronted leers from the crowd as well as a shocked one from the heir. "Will y'all just leave me alone? I am not interested in being an actress!"

* * *

_It's hard to lead the life you choose  
All I wanted  
When all your luck's run out on you  
All I wanted  
And you can't see when all your dreams are coming true_

_Oh, yeah  
It's easy to forget, yeah  
When you choke on the regrets, yeah  
Who the hell did I think I was?_

_And stranger than your sympathy  
And all these thoughts you stole from me  
And I'm not sure where I belong  
And no where's home and I'm all wrong  
_- Goo Goo Dolls, Sympathy


End file.
